


Benediction

by Galadriel



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drowning, Epiphanies, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Pain, Post-Canon, Series Spoilers, Tumblr: hannigramholidayexchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 04:02:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5524691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/Galadriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will may have wished for death, but what he's been given is a rebirth. (Takes place immediately post-series.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Benediction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [charlottekath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottekath/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, charlottekath! I hope you enjoy this story: I tried to incorporate most of your requests, and I hope, in some small way, I've been successful.

It's like another slice of the Dragon's claws, the stabbing, searing, freezing pain as icy cold water floods into his wounds. He's sure it has stopped his heart even as a flood of adrenaline overtakes him, forcing his lungs to work, his arms and legs to kick, even as he wants nothing more than to stay wrapped in Hannibal's arms. Even as he wants nothing more than to drink deep of the dark, dark water and sink into the nothingness they both have made.

Will struggles against his own desire to struggle, and the last thing he feels as he succumbs to the inevitable is the squeezing, clenching, crushing _thump_ as his heart struggles to restart.

It is all he can hear. The slow, sluggish thunder of a faraway storm; the rolling, rumbling shudder of an earthquake leagues away.

He thinks it's _his_ heart; yet it may not be. The wounds, the blood, the fight, the fall... The water has made them indivisible, one from the other: Will and Hannibal, locked together in life and death. Heart and stag, spirit and hart. His heart will continue to beat so long as Hannibal wills it, and not a moment more.

It's beautiful. Will knows that now.

***

Against his will, his body convulses, air flowing in as the water rushes out. His throat is raw from coughing up bile and lake water, raw from the screams he has never voiced. His nerves snap and sizzle, little pinpricks of pain scuttling up and down his spine as the warmth of the world begins to seep back into him.

He wasn't meant to be here, wasn't meant to surface. Will knows this. He and Hannibal belong at the bottom of the very deepest of wells. They belong in the cracks and places between, in the blackness of night, the shadow of the sea floor. They belong nowhere except in the spaces where other sharks swim, deadly, dangerous, and distant.

He has the faintest awareness of a brush of lips, Hannibal's lips, tasting of full, dark promises which slip into his mouth alongside the very life he had hoped the cliff would snuff out. 

_Not so lucky_ , his brain supplies as it begins to click back into gear. It seems oxygen deprivation hasn't deprived him of anything much; at least, not that he can tell at such an early date?

Would he even be able to tell if he was broken? Hannibal is, most definitely is, and yet he glides carelessly through the world, a god among mortals, dealing in death and desire.

As Will's eyes open on the dark, as his ears fill with the rushing of waves, he wonders what he desires more: death, or the God of Death?

Some small part of him hopes to stay as he is, mingling red and black with the wet sand beneath his body. Some small part of him still desires nothing more than to draw Hannibal close and let their melting clock run out, to bleed out together, die here on the beach with nothing but the rocks and the gulls to bear witness.

His own lips taste of bargains and blood, and his voice cracks as he tries to speak. He wants to tell Hannibal that they're done, they're over but not divided, not ever divorced one from another again, but the words stick in his throat. 

"Shh. Lie still." Will feels himself being lifted, sand and sludge dropping away from his body as strong arms pluck him from his final resting place. He knows these arms, knows their strength and delicacy as he knows the bludgeon from the blade. He would turn his head if he could to look into his rescuer's face, look directly at the man who has damned him, but he has lost his glasses somewhere along the way.

Instead, he looks up at the stars. They shimmer and blur in his sight, out of focus and unapproachable. As distant from him as he feels. Will is lost, but Hannibal has found him. 

Hannibal is a survivor, and Will will survive if Hannibal wishes it.

***

Will groans. The pins and needles have turned to fire, but at least he can _feel_ his own body now. Cautiously, he opens one eye, then the other, and is surprised not to see sky. There is a solid ceiling above him, soft cushions below, and candles. So many blazing candles. He squints a little, realizing belatedly that his left eye is seeing clearly, and there's a familiar pressure on the bridge of his nose. 

Hannibal must have found his glasses. The right lense is entirely gone, skewing his sight -- _but perhaps making it match his mind_ \-- and dividing the world into clear and muddled.

A perfect metaphor for what he's become. Will laughs, a short, sharp sound that becomes sharper as his muscles clench. Dear god, that hurts. Dear god, _his_ god, who has drawn Will's blood in sacrifice and sanctity, and now leaves him bloody and broken instead of decently put down like any ailing animal.

He lies still for a long moment, then ever so carefully tries again. He shifts by the half-inch, a slow crawl towards mobility, a cautious test for broken bones and torn muscles. The minutes tick by like hours, until finally, he's propped himself up enough to assess the damage. He winces as he lifts his stained and torn shirt, distantly noting it is barely damp -- _how long has he been here?_ \-- revealing skin scrubbed clean of all blood and gore, fresh and free of sand and gravel. There are bruises here, dark and mottled, purple and black, but no other signs of the carnage he and Hannibal have enacted. 

His shoulder, however... A glance confirms that it has been cleaned and packed, protected beneath layers and layers of gauze, every panel precisely placed so that each corner is smartly folded. The handiwork screams Hannibal, as do the licks of flame that move up and down Will's side whenever he tries to move it. Perhaps the stiffness that makes motion all but impossible is a gift instead of a curse. Will hisses a curse through his teeth, damning the Dragon to the death he and Hannibal deserve. 

By now, someone has surely found the site of their slaughter. By now, Jack has no doubt tracked their path to the edge of the cliff.

By now, the two of them must be presumed dead.

"Ah. Will. You're awake." Will turns his head towards the familiar voice, in time to see a slightly-blurry Hannibal cross the room and slowly come in to focus. He's carrying a tray, laden with two long-stemmed glasses and something red and raw on a plate. Neat as a pin, he's obviously taken as much care cleaning himself as he has Will, his hair slightly damp, but brushed straight, as if fresh from a shower. Unlike Will, he's dressed in clean clothes, soft dark slacks and a wine-coloured sweater, both ever so slightly too wide for him, but attractive nonetheless. He sets the tray down on a coffee table before rounding it and approaching the couch. 

Will struggles to sit up on his own, but manages to do little but cause himself to gasp, to see dark spots and bright stars, as if the ceiling has opened up and deposited him back on that beach. Hannibal tsks and slides behind him, gently settling Will against his chest.

"Where are we?" Will murmurs. His face feels strange... wrong. 

The weight of Hannibal's arm is reassuring as he curls it around Will's chest. "Not far from the cliff face." Will can hear the smile in his voice. "A small cabin a few miles away. Far enough that we have a few hours before Jack thinks to look for us anywhere."

"Unoccupied?" 

Hannibal chuckles. "It was by the time I carried you in."

Will runs his tongue around his mouth, over his teeth. The right side of his face feels puffy, tender, and belatedly he remembers the Dragon's knife, the way it slid deep.

Perhaps proving the strength of their link, Hannibal strokes his fingers down the side of Will's face, tracing the edges of more gauze, outlining the slice to Will's cheek. "A battle scar," he murmurs.

"Yes." Will's breath comes quicker than expected, responding to Hannibal even in his broken state.

"I must admit to some jealousy."

Will blinks, and bites his lip against the pain as he looks up at Hannibal. "Jealousy?"

Hannibal nods. "I prefer for your scars to come from me." He bows his head, dipping low, his lips cool and dry on Will's forehead. It feels like a benediction, an absolution, a blessing to mark his baptism of blood.

Perhaps that is why Hannibal hasn't seen fit to change his clothes. Perhaps they are his gown of white, stained black by the murderous moon. Perhaps the fall has killed the _old_ Will, and now he is free to be filled with Hannibal's wrath.

The thought fills him with sudden pleasure, blooming like blood flowing across glass. He died in the water, sloughed off his humanity in the cold, and now he's beyond such concerns.

"Will? Are you asleep?" Will shakes his head, drowsy all the same. Hannibal's fingers move to his hair, carding through the waves and curls. "Rest now. When you have regained some strength and the night comes again, we will leave this place."

Will sighs, fighting the desire to close his eyes. "Where will we go?"

Hannibal's soft laughter reminds him of the clinking of china teacups, one to another. "Somewhere with soft beds. And velvet curtains. Someone is waiting for us there, waiting patiently with our next meal."

Will knows what that means; he knows, and he can no longer summon up the compassion to care.

He watched Hannibal shatter their teacup between them, rend their family apart. What is broken can never be mended, can never be pristine again. But maybe what Will needs isn't purity. It isn't innocence or virtue or a new-born lamb. What he needs is _Hannibal_ , destroyer in this life and the next.

Without the confines of caring, Will can go on to make the world over. Carve it up in Hannibal's own image, cut horns from heads, hearts from chests, and spirit from soul. This is what Will was made for. What he was designed for. Will knows that now.

His eyelids droop, sleep finally calling, Hannibal's fingers against his neck spurring it on. He's safe here, in his murderer's arms, safe to dream of deaths that are not his own.

The candlelight is warm, and the blood red wine sparkles so prettily. The hands that cut and kill are gentle on his skin, the mouth that bites and tears brush lightly across his ear. 

It's beautiful, this broken teacup, each spidering crack another kill.


End file.
